Payne smiled. “Nope. Just been traveling. Seeing some sights. Rescuing some damsels. You know, normal stuff.”
“I figured as much, which is the reason for my call. Do you have computer access?”
“We will for another hour. After that, no.”
“I’m sending a link to D.J. Tell him to follow Panther protocols. He’ll know what to do.”
“Okay,” said Payne as he grabbed the clothes he needed. “Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. If you have any trouble, let me know.”
Payne hung up and casually walked toward Jones, who was looking at pants on the other side of the store. “It’s time to roll.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got mail.”
There was an Internet café less than a block away. Jones grabbed a computer in the back corner while Payne paid for an hour. He always used cash when on a mission. Never credit cards.
To view Raskin’s message, Jones followed the Panther protocol, a simple procedure Raskin had designed for accessing data in a public place. Jones logged on to his office system in Pittsburgh, which was highly encrypted, and ran a program, called Panther, that blocked all monitoring software on the public terminal. It was an effective way to erase all trails to the Pentagon, and it prevented any files from being saved in a temporary folder on a public network.
Once Jones was confident the computer was clean, he opened the e-mail:hey guys,
i think you’ll like this—or maybe not. he doesn’t seem like
a nice person. make sure you cover your tracks. i don’t want
him coming after me. he’s scary.
r.r.
A few minutes later, they understood what Raskin was talking about when they viewed the file he had attached to the message. Sometime during the night, he had hacked into a Russian surveillance company and downloaded the security video of Richard Byrd’s murder. Actually, it was more than a murder. It was a cold-blooded execution, perpetrated by an assassin in a highly public venue. The type of wet work that was taught by the CIA, MI6, and other security agencies around the globe—including the old KGB.
At least that was the opinion of Payne and Jones.
The black-and-white footage was filmed from an elevated angle on the back porch of the Peterhof. It was a wide-angle shot, focusing on the banister above the main grotto, right where Richard Byrd was standing. Although the video was grainy, Payne and Jones were mesmerized by what they saw. The killer walked with precision. Never wasting energy or stopping to contemplate his next move. He approached Byrd, raised his gun, and fired. No hesitation. Never breaking stride. Totally professional. Then he tossed his weapon over the railing. It hit the water at the exact moment his victim tumbled into the fountain.
The timing was so perfect, the body and the gun made a single splash.
Payne and Jones replayed the video several times, looking for flaws in the killer’s technique. There were none. He never looked at the camera. He never ran or panicked. He never did anything to give away his identity. Even during the chaos that followed.
Payne watched the execution one more time. “What do you think? Ex-Agency?”
“Maybe. Or Russian mob. No one we want to tangle with—if we can help it.”
“Famous last words.”
Jones smirked. “I hope not.”
Payne tapped the computer screen. “Do me a favor and keep it running for a bit. Allison said she witnessed the shooting. Maybe we can see her in the aftermath.”
“Good idea.”
They stared at the footage, focusing on the people in the background. Someone on the patio must have seen the body and screamed, because all of a sudden everyone started running. Everyone, that is, except for one female with long blond hair. As chaos erupted around her, she fell to her knees in front of the giant waterfall and wailed with grief. It was a sorrowful scene, one that tugged at their heartstrings and reaffirmed their decision to help her out.
She looked so lost and confused and scared.
No wonder she had been so emotional on the phone.
“Keep it going,” Payne said. “I want to see what she’s made of.”
Surprisingly, she cried for less than a minute. After that, she wiped her eyes, brushed the dirt off her knees, then walked away from the camera until she was no longer visible.
One minute she was a crying mess, the next she was calm enough to escape.
Jones stopped the video. “Impressive. She’s tougher than I thought.”
Payne nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, so is the shooter.”
23
The blue tapestry hung from the ceiling to the floor, covering most of the back wall in the monk’s chamber. Dial had orig inally thought it was there to add a splash of color to an otherwise dreary room. Then he noticed a color that didn’t belong. The color was red. It was smeared on a few of the golden tassels near the bottom right-hand corner of the tapestry—as if someone with bloody hands had grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall.